How I Lost my Brother in Korea #3

by Mary Fahey

On the troop ship returning to the states, with mustering out and back combat pay in their pockets and little else to do, the soldiers gambled. Andy returned home in 1953 with $8,000, the equivalent of two years pay for a working man. We rejoiced in his homecoming.  He said he wanted to take it easy for a while and live off his money. We agreed that he should have a rest. But the weeks turned into months and still he made no effort to find a job. He became reclusive, rarely going out, spending the day watching TV or playing solitaire with a deck of cards.

  Andy center back circa 1950        

 His old neighborhood buddies came to invite him out, but he always made an excuse not to go and finally they stopped asking. He had nightmares. He jumped out of bed and threw himself on the floor yelling “Hit the dirt.”

“Post-Traumatic-Stress Disorder” didn’t exist in our vocabulary in 1954. The more prevalent attitude proclaimed “Snap out of it. Straighten yourself out and get a job.” We didn’t know how to help him.

            During this time, Andy and I continued our friendship. We sometimes stayed up ‘til two or three AM, just talking. During these talks he told me about his Korea experiences, about the ambush and subsequent trek through the mountains to get back to the American line, about the nights he heard enemy soldiers taunting the American GIs to show themselves, about the enemy sniper he always recognized by the distinctive ping of his rifle. He also became more introspective. He believed in the soul. He said when he saw people die, he felt that something left the body and he believed it was the spirit.

He tried to explain abstract thinking to me. He raised a glass from the table, and asked, “What did I just do?”

            “Raise the glass,” I answered.

            “How do you know that I didn’t keep the glass stationary and move the rest of the earth downward?”

            He explained about molecules and told me that everything has molecules that constantly change position and theoretically if you struck your finger against the table at the same spot, infinitely often enough, the molecules in your finger and those in the table would rearrange themselves until your finger could pass through the table. In his hermit life, he still taught me and I still learned from my tormented brother.

            Eventually his money ran out. We wondered how he could go through $8000. (in 1950's money,) in less than two years? He paid $15 a week to mom for room and board. He never bought any clothes and only went out occasionally.  I recently learned through a cousin, that Andy had a gambling addiction. When he did go out, he went to the race track or to the bookie. We didn’t realize it at the time, but in hind sight I remember he poured over racing forms. He also taught me how to read a tout sheet.

            My mother moved to Florida and asked Andy if he wanted to move with her or stay in the Brooklyn apartment. He opted to stay. I had married by then and sometimes visited him after work. I needed to use my key to enter the apartment. He wouldn’t answer the door bell. His appearance became gaunt and disheveled. I no longer recognized the brilliant, strong brother with movie star good looks I used to know.

            He made soup from onions, the only thing left in the house to eat. I saw no food in the refrigerator. I left to go shopping.

            “What do you want me to buy?” I asked

            Andy’s pride made him protest. “I have this soup,” he said. He didn’t want my charity.

            I said. “I’m hungry. I don’t want onion soup. I’m getting something to eat.”

            I bought enough so leftovers could sustain him for a couple of days. I couldn’t offer him money. He would refuse, so when I prepared to go home, I put a few dollars on the table. Eventually, the landlord evicted him for non-payment of rent. My mother returned from Florida and paid his back rent. She told him she would give up the apartment for good. He still refused to go with her to Florida.

            We pleaded with him to get a job before setting out on his own again. “Don’t worry. I’ll get a job and find a place to live. I’ll let you know where I’ll be,” he said.

            And so, one day in 1955, with suitcase in hand and a few dollars from my mother in his pocket, my brother Andy walked out of our lives.

            Missing Persons Department could do nothing.

            “He is an adult. He has the right to leave. There is no evidence of foul play.”

            My mother returned from Florida and roamed the Bowery looking into the faces of derelicts huddled in doorways. She frequented the soup kitchens and shelters of Brooklyn and New York, with a picture of Andy, asking if anyone recognized him. No one knew him. We hired a private detective who searched social security records, the armed forces, passport applications, hospitals, institutions, jails and morgues. No trace of him.

            I continue the search my mother started before her death. Andy has never worked or received social security benefits under his old number.  He’s not listed in the Social Security Death Index. He has vanished.

            It occurs to me that I never told him that I love him. I hope he knew.

            When I meet people who ask if I have siblings, I tell them I had a brother but we lost him in Korea. It’s easier than explaining the whole story, and it’s not a lie, we really did lose our Andy in Korea.